The Passion of Joan of Arc
by Theater Raven
Summary: Based on the 1962 film. Professor Petrie has sworn to prepare Christine to debut in his opera in merely a week. The results, as we know, were amazing. So, what happened during that week? Pairing: Petrie and Christine
1. Chapter 1

**The Passion of Joan of Arc**

Making her way down the cold, winding stone staircase, Christine clutched her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. She cursed herself for those few seconds of pity when she had agreed to this. Why had she agreed to an _entire week_ of lessons from him? She had barely survived one night of his perfection-seeking tutoring, and the slap he had given her when she had whispered she could go on no more was not far from her memory. Still, for whatever reason, after hearing the tragic story of how Lord Ambrose had plagiarized the opera that had taken him ten years to write, Christine had agreed for Professor Petrie to train her for a week; after that week of training, according to him, she would be ready to debut as the heroine in his opera, _Saint Joan._

Now, stepping off the last step, hearing the faint flowing of the underground river ahead of her and the scurrying of rats in some far-off, dank shadow, pity again seized Christine. This poor man had worked so hard on his work, only to have it stolen, only to become horribly disfigured in his attempts to stop the thievery. He had not detailed to Christine and her suitor, Harry, the extent of his disfigurement when he told them his story, but from his posture when he spoke of it, his hunched shoulders, his twitching fingers, his one visible eye—the only thing his mask permitted anyone to see of him—blinking rapidly, they knew it must be awful.

Christine now saw Professor Petrie's silent dwarf companion waiting to lead her across the river. Christine took his had and together, they waded through the waist-deep water and stepped up onto the other bank.

She could see the black figure that was her instructor seated at the organ. She could not help but smile sadly at how he wore his tattered suit with pride, a suit that perhaps had once been his best attire but now was beginning to look like something a poor beggar sewed together in an attempt to resemble, if only faintly, the middle class. At hearing her approach, he turned around, his eye looking out at her with nothing but cool expectancy, as if to merely say, "Thank you for being prompt".

"Come here, Christine," he said, his voice a soft command.

She did, standing at his side.

"You remember where we left off yesterday, I trust?"

She nodded.

"Very good, then, we shall begin, and let us be grateful that today is only Monday—we have much work to do. All right, scales now—begin."

He played a note and she followed it with her voice. By the position of his fingers on the organ keys after the note died, she knew he was not pleased.

"No, Christine," he said with a shake of the head.

"Professor, I was—."

"You weren't supporting yourself, that's what you were doing. Now, again!"

He played the note again, and again she tried. And again. And again. And again. Christine lost sense of time. At first, she tried to keep track, but soon, the daunting task of remembering how long she had been standing there singing scales became too much for her brain and she just did as she was told without regard to her exhausted body or hungry stomach or how much time had passed.

At last, however, he signaled that it was all right to stop. Rising, he retrieved a cup and handed it to her. Christine put it to her lips and drank and realized it was water—_lukewarm_ water.

"Do you have any ice, Professor?"

"Yes, I do, but you may not have any."

"Why not?"

"Cold water is bad for the voice—it's not good to sing after having drunk cold water."

"But I'm parched. This water barely satisfies."

"As does many things in life. Besides, if you were out on the trails in the midst of a war and you came upon water, I doubt the last thing you, your soldiers, or your horses would be concerned about would be whether or not the water was the exact temperature you prefer it to be. Now, drink up. We have more work to do."

When Christine had left after the long day, Petrie leaned back against the organ, closing his eyes. His memories of her voice from that day swirled around in his head and made his heart leap and his body stir. True, she still needed much work, but, oh, God, what a wonder that voice would become—he could almost hear it now . . . the drumming of his own heart thudded in his ears as his longings—both his tutoring goals and the desires of his heart and body—mixed around within his thoughts, stirring his senses up so that he was almost moved to tears with longing.

Opening his eyes, he thought over the day's lesson and how Christine had all but ran when he dismissed her for the day. He looked over at his dwarf companion, who sat silently by the river.

"She hates me now, doesn't she?" Petrie said with a chuckle, knowing his friend would not reply, "I know she does, I can see it, but in time, she'll see it's all merely a thin surface and that something sweeter lies beneath."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Opening her eyes and seeing that the sky was graying with oncoming dawn, Christine groaned sleepily to herself. He expected her to be there early. Sighing, she threw back the covers and dressed, packing a small lunch to take with her, and tiptoeing out the door without waking Mrs. Tucker, the landlady. She bought her breakfast from one of the vendors on the streets, eating it on the way as she walked in the growing light towards the theater. Entering and making her way down the all-too-familiar path to his underground home, Christine waded across the river and found him standing on the bank, waiting for her.

"You're late."

"It's six o'clock in the morning!"

"You're still late."

He grabbed her hand and dragged her roughly over to the organ.

"Warm ups—begin."

He played a note. She sang. He played another one. She sang. The hours and minutes and seconds all seemed to pass away and all that existed were the sounds of her voice and the organ being played. After what seemed like an eternity, he motioned for her to stop.

"Very good," he said. "You're on pitch, finally. Now we can begin working on the actual lyrics, but first . . ."

He rose and walked to a cupboard, taking two dishes out of it. He handed one to her and Christine saw it consisted of a meal, one that would barely fill up a mouse's stomach, let alone her own.

"Eat," he commanded.

By this point, Christine realized it was best to keep her comments to herself—voicing them to the professor would only result in an unnecessary argument, after which she just ended up doing whatever it was he had asked her to do in the first place anyway. However, her stomach obviously felt differently and chose to growl very loudly at that moment. Whether Petrie noticed this or not, he did not make known, but instead took the other plate with him, turned, and went into another room. Christine wondered why and then realized with slight pity that it must have been because he could not eat without taking his mask off and did not want her to see his face. Trying to brush away this sad thought as well as the hunger within her, she ate the meager meal that had been handed her.

She had not been finished for long when she heard his shuffled footsteps coming back towards her. She saw his silhouetted figure in the doorway and remembered, for a moment, the time he had first appeared to her at the top of a staircase in the same way, a hand outstretched to her, and how he had called to her quietly—"Young woman . . . young woman, you must come with me". She had been afraid at the time, but now, now that she had spent the past several days with him, she was able to recognize the kind undertone in his whispered command. Indeed, he barely spoke above a rasped murmur, his voice no doubt terribly damaged in some way due to the accident, just as the rest of him had probably been . . .

Leaning wearily against the doorframe, Petrie caught himself looking at her again. His sight was not what it once was, the acid and flames having eaten away one eye and leaving him only the use of the other, but the sight he had been spared was enough. His heart was weak, he knew—before she had entered his life, he had been able to feel its beats slowly growing softer, further between; he had been able to feel the spirit that was left within the fragile cocoon of his body slowly evaporating away—but at the sound of her voice, at the sight of her, his heart began to pound like a drum in his chest and the spirit that was left begged to stay in the tortured shell rather than enter whatever paradise awaited it if it meant seeing and hearing her. And, of course, there was that _other_ part of him that kept tauntingly reminding him that it had not been used yet in the way it knew Petrie most desired to use it, and his decrepit body never ceased pointing out that there was a bit of ticking clock; the clock was ticking so rapidly that Petrie knew he would die before the desire was fulfilled, and this fact was something that he had forced his mind to get used to, despite the emotional anguish it caused him. Closing his eyes and getting back into the character of the no nonsense music teacher he had been portraying to her for the past several days, he strode back over towards the organ and sat down on the bench.

"All right, let us begin again, Christine."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

"My dear, you're nodding off again," Mrs. Tucker, the landlady said on Wednesday morning.

Christine jerked up and then listlessly stirred her bowl of oatmeal, not even tempted by the sweet-smelling, warm steam that rose up from the bowl to caress her face.

"He's working you too hard," Mrs. Tucker said, "And I always assumed his students at the academy were just lazy, the way he used to come back in a rage about them, but now it seems he sets his expectations too high."

Mrs. Tucker had kept Professor Petrie as a tenant before his accident that drove him beneath the Opera.

"I agree," Christine said wearily. "He's a great teacher and I've improved a lot, but I would feel better if he wasn't so . . ."

She stared into her breakfast, as if the right descriptive word would appear to her there.

". . . If he wasn't so gruff. There's no emotion in what he says to me. Not that he says much, other than giving instructions, but even then, it's just crisp—technique. That's all."

It was then that she happened to glance at the clock and realize she was late. She leapt up from her chair, leaving her untouched bowl of oatmeal behind.

"No more milk."

"What?"

"No more milk. You had milk with your breakfast today. I can hear it. No more. It's bad for the vocal cords."

"But I _like_ milk!"

"So did the cow that the dairy farmer _stole_ the milk_ from_. Now, if that will be all, we should continue with the lesson."

Christine swallowed, wondering how on earth the professor's hearing was so acute that he was actually able to detect the fact that she had indeed had milk that morning. At the sight of the quizzical look on her face, Petrie chuckled quietly to himself. Christine looked in his direction.

"You laughed."

"I did not."

"Yes, you did."

"No, I'm certain I didn't."

"You're not the only one with good hearing, Professor—I heard you."

"What difference does it make?" he asked, suddenly irritated.

"I'm sorry, it's just—."

She was cut off by the sound of the organ. She began to sing along with it.

The professor gave the usual signal that the lesson was over. Exhausted beyond comprehension, Christine walked over to the chair where she had laid her cloak. She picked it up, threw it over her shoulders, and was about to leave when his voice called her back to beside the organ bench. She approached him, slightly afraid, and her fear turned to sudden surprise when he reached out timidly and patted her hand.

"You did a good job today," he said quietly.

She was about to thank him when he abruptly turned back to the organ and began to play and she took that as her signal to leave and did so. The moment her footsteps had faded, Petrie stopped playing, glancing up at his silent friend who was seated by the riverbank and he smiled behind the mask.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

His playing was not as seamless as usual and he kept glancing at her out of the corner of his one useful eye only to be forced to glance down at his hands. He needed to keep his gaze off her if he was to remain in control of his sanity. He tried to force his brain to concentrate on the notes, the keys, but the passionate rising and falling of the score only made him think of the dreams of her that had filled his head the night before. Of course, they had been plaguing him all week, but the ones of last night had been exceptionally realistic. And when he had been awakened by the anguished sound of his own voice as he called to her, still in his dream, finding by reaching out in the darkness that the spot beside him in bed was cold, lifeless, and impassionate, he cried himself back to sleep.

Now, Thursday morning, hearing a voice singing that was perfect in technique but completely useless when it came to emotion, Petrie found himself wanting to tell her of the emotion that was burning in his chest, eating away at his insides. It was in the music—why could she not seem to hear it? And it was not just the passion for_ her_ that he was thinking of—his thoughts went back to the times of the ancients, when artists first called upon the blessings and guidance of the muses before beginning their work. He yearned to spark that kind of inspiration within her, but how to do it? He was suddenly startled when he realized the ending of the song had snuck up on him. He played the last few notes, hoping she would not notice he did so shakily, she sang the last few words, and they glanced up at each other.

Petrie found himself searching his mind for words due to the fact that he was taken aback by her appearance: Her eyes were dull, exhausted, her face was sickly pale.

"Christine? Are you all right?"

She nodded her head in an almost mechanical manner.

"I'm fine, Professor," she said, her voice hollow.

Petrie felt a stab of guilt. Maybe he was now paying the price for the hardened façade he had been presenting to her all week. In the past, he had never hesitated to push a student to exhaustion if it meant bringing out the best in them, if it meant he was able to physically hear come from them what he _imagined_ could come from them, what he knew was lying down deep, hidden, suppressed. . . Still, this was a different case entirely.

From the beginning, Christine had been a different case. In the past, pupils had come to him through recommendation, through hearing that Professor Petrie was one of the best music teachers this side of the Thames, and he met them and he taught them and he sent them on their way. He had acted out of duty, out of the profession he had chosen—not to say that he did not love what he did, it was just that all the others had been just students to him, talented, yes, but nothing special to him. But with her, with Christine . . . he had happened to hear her at the auditions for his opera, and he had felt a pull toward her; he had been moved, and he had needed to draw her to him—he had needed to reach out to her to show her that the only way both of them were going to get what they wanted was if they worked together. She had been drawn to his beckoning, but she was like a magnet being drawn to another magnet, which was far from what Petrie knew was inside, yet the beautiful moth dancing around in the equally beautiful glow of the candle flame he saw in his mind's eye was not presenting itself.

And then, of course, there was the enormously large factor that his love of her voice had quickly turned into a love for the woman herself. No matter how hard he tried, his heart always got in the way. He kept its interference to himself, of course, but with half the week nearly gone now, and the debut performance of the opera set for Sunday—a day that seemed like it was an eternity away and only moments away at the same time—Petrie was not sure how much longer he could keep his emotions bottled up inside him. He rested his head in his hands, groaning softly. Christine saw the professor resting for a moment and took this time to use what little mental strength she had left to collect her thoughts.

Christine was exhausted. She knew she had promised this to the professor, but she could no longer take the rigorous routine. She never should have come to the auditions that started this whole ordeal—and why did he have to choose her? There were plenty of other girls just as talented as her who could fit the role of Saint Joan. She gathered up her courage—she was going to tell the professor that she wanted out.

"Professor?"

Petrie turned to look at her. The image of her face coming into his field of vision was like a bright beacon of light suddenly searing into it. It hurt his vision to look at her—she was so beautiful and yet looked so tired, and he was certain his schedule had caused the dark circles under her eyes, the downward curving of the corners of her mouth . . . even with the veil of exhaustion she was wearing, she was still radiantly beautiful. That beauty called to him like a siren's song, summoned up the deep yearnings that lay buried deep within him, yearnings that he had never satisfied, yearnings that _yearned_ to be satisfied . . . Petrie's head ached.

"I'm sorry, Christine. What were you going to say?"

His head was bursting. He could barely get the words out, his own voice sounding far away. Christine's words were caught in her mouth at the sight of the professor—he didn't look well.

"Professor . . .?"

Petrie's head tipped back and he slumped off the organ bench onto the floor in a faint.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

The ringing in his ears started to fade, the murky shadows of his vision clearing away to reveal images . . . at first, he thought he was dreaming when he saw her at his bedside. But when she reached out and touched his hand, he knew he wasn't dreaming. The touch of her hand jerked the strong feelings he had kept bottled inside up to the surface and yet, now, he was too weak to voice them. He couldn't help but laugh to himself at his situation—here he had thought that his only love would be music, and now that he had finally fallen for a flesh-and-blood woman, a muse made out of the unworthy clay of mortal flesh, now that he had fallen, he could not make his descent known!

"You scared me for a moment, there," she was saying.

She pulled the mask down just enough to leave his forehead bare and Petrie was grateful that she did not remove the whole thing—a sight as horrific as the remains of his face did not need to soil her eyes. He felt a cool, wet cloth on his forehead and he closed his eyes, sighing inwardly at the relief it brought.

"Professor, what happened?"

It took a while for him to be able to gather the breath and the strength so that he could answer.

"It's just . . . a little headache . . . The headaches come and go—I've had them since . . . the accident . . ."

"I wouldn't call it 'little'—that one left you unconscious!"

"It's happened before . . ."

The cloth was pulled away and her warm hand replaced it. Petrie clenched his eyes shut even tighter. Perhaps it was from the contrast of the cold cloth, but the warmth of her hand . . . oh, God . . .

_Am I dying? I feel the caress of angels . . ._

"Christine, as you can see, I am too weak to go on today. You may leave, if you like."

"But what about . . .?"

"I'll be fine. My companion is here," he said, turning to gesture toward his silent friend.

He heard her footsteps leaving and he closed his eyes to sleep.

Christine made her way back to the Opera House, a container of soup in one hand. It was difficult to make her way down to the cellars in the dark. She reached the river and began to wade her way through the dark water. Suddenly, a figure holding a lantern in one hand and a readied knife in the other leapt out at her from the water.

Christine screamed once and then was silenced when she realized it was the professor's mute dwarf companion and, when he realized it was her, he lowered his weapon and motioned for her to follow him. They made their way to the caverns the professor called home and Christine saw, pityingly, that the cellars seemed much gloomier and more cut off from the world at night. The dwarf pointed to the professor's bed, indicating that he was asleep. He indicated to Christine that she should leave whatever it was she had brought for him on the nightstand just by the bed.

"But it's soup—it's best eaten when it's hot," she told him.

The dwarf nodded and stepped aside so she could cross the room.

_Her head was resting on his chest, her arms around him as he sat holding her. To think that it had been such a long, grueling journey to get to merely this point—her sitting contentedly in his lap—and yet he knew that he would do it over again to merely arrive at this moment . . .He closed his eyes, nestling his face into her short brown hair . . . the aching inside him was almost unbearable._

_"Christine . . .?"_

_Her hand rested on his shoulder._

Petrie awoke with a start. Her hand really _was_resting on his shoulder.

"Christine . . .?"

"Yes, Professor, it's me."

"What are you doing here?"

"I brought you some soup. Mrs. Tucker made it after I told her about what happened today."

Petrie's stomach growled in fond remembrance of his former landlady's cooking.

"Here," Christine said with a laugh, having heard his stomach, "Eat up."

She handed him the soup and a spoon. He didn't move.

"Surely you remember that her soup doesn't taste _quite_ as good cold," Christine said, smiling.

"Of course I remember that," he said, suddenly irritable, "I'm just not hungry _yet_."

"But you seemed so eager to—."

"When I want to eat, I will, but now, I can't—I mean, I don't want to," he said, correcting himself.

Christine suddenly realized what he was hinting at—he needed to take his mask off to eat and did not want to do so in front of her.

"Professor, it doesn't matter—."

"Well, it matters to me!"

He wanted to add that the reason it mattered was that eyes as beautiful as hers did not need to be smudged with the sight that was the ruins of his face, but he didn't. He just sat upright in the bed, the soup now back on the nightstand, his arms crossed over his chest.

"If you think I'm that shallow," she replied, "You're a fool."

"That's what they all say . . . before they see it," he replied, turning from her. "Now, _go!_"

The last word was shouted at her and she was shocked that he could be so loud in his weakened condition. Fearfully, she got up and ran and when she was gone, he cried himself to sleep.


End file.
